


All Days Are Nights

by TMBlue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Mild Language, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TMBlue/pseuds/TMBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nights in Australia after the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Days Are Nights

There were mirrors everywhere.

It seemed that no matter where he looked, where he wandered in this place, he could see his own reflection – in the tall windows across the room, half decorated by sheer curtains; passing by the wide dresser mirror as he skimmed the foot of the bed with his long fingers; and now, in the loo, to his left… and once again _there_ , menacingly, directly before him, above the sink.

It wasn't really supposed to be like this.

They'd only just arrived in Sydney, and he was collapsing. He felt unsteady and unsure and out of control of so many things. He knew it was only temporary, but somehow, that never seemed to help. In fact, tonight, it only made it worse.

Australia was so very far away. Not that he thought he could ever outrun reality. And really, now that the war was over, he was perfectly happy to _focus_ on that reality. It was astonishing, to have wound up here, face to face with everything he'd spent so long trying to crush, the dreams he feared he didn't deserve, finally coming true. But now, he was standing in a hotel bathroom, and through an adjoining door between their bedrooms, Hermione was doing the same. And she wasn't just Hermione anymore. Not just the girl he'd gaze at sadly as she got everything right… _perfect_ , in fact. Now, she was something else… something more… that he had only named once, in a moment of panic…

_Girlfriend_.

It sounded unfamiliar in a way that he craved. And he now understood what that word really meant. Or meant to _him_ , perhaps. Because from the mouths of his classmates, through so many years, it had sounded so hollow, merely serving to cast his eyes rolling in retrospect. Now, it bubbled in the pit of his stomach and gave him some kind of new strength, one he wasn't sure he'd ever learn how to recreate… not without her, anyway.

He took his time washing his face and hands, letting his eyes dry until they burned. He'd been so unpredictable lately, eyes suddenly full of unassociated tears. And then he'd stop and think and know exactly _why_ they were there, and it made it so much harder afterwards to solidify… that it was real. That Fred was… _gone_. How much longer would he be on this ride, this cycle of shutting down against the fact that he'd never see his brother again, then grasping it suddenly as truth and holding on… only to let it slip from his mind again the next day?

His eyes ached, and he before he knew it, he was cursing himself for crying again. It wasn't even that he needed to be strong for her here, searching for her family. That strength took a different part of himself, a part that already belonged to her. No, it was letting her see how torn apart he really _was_. She had so much else to worry about…

"Ron?"

Her voice was so soft and timid that he almost didn't catch it, but he felt her presence as his ears warmed from soft pink to crimson. He brushed the back of his hand beneath his eyes and turned left to face her, where she now stood in the loo doorway.

"Hey," he said, gently.

She gave him such a pitiful look, eyebrows knitted together, and he swiped at his cheeks again with his fingers to make sure they were completely dry. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and rocked back on his heels, waiting for her to say something else.

But she didn't. She simply held his gaze until her lips parted and her cheeks flushed rose.

"What is it?" he asked, voice scratchy and lazy.

"Don't act all innocent. I saw you… crying," she said, looking away from him. "Please… don't try to hide from me."

"I'm not. I wasn't…" But he _was_ , wasn't he? He sighed, almost inaudibly, and he tilted his head further down, studying the way her now-petite front teeth wore away at her bottom lip.

"You shouldn't have come."

Her statement was so direct, and so sharp, that he felt physical pain at the way it hit him. But then, he knew what she really meant. He _did_. It wasn't that she didn't want him there with her, but that she wanted him to heal, to be at home where she thought he belonged. But she didn't understand at all, did she…

"Of course I should. I wouldn't be anywhere else, Hermione," and he cleared his throat at last, suddenly a bit more self conscious.

Her eyes darted up to meet his again, so much sadness and confusion hidden in deep, dark brown.

"It isn't fair for you to have to do this with me. I could have handled it by myself. You should be where you belong, at home with your fam-"

"I _am_ where I belong," he said shortly, cutting across her sentence before she could force any more false words in his direction.

She studied him, carefully, taken aback by his curt statement. And he watched and waited as her eyes darted between his, reading him as closely as any book she'd ever owned.

"I'm not just saying that to make you feel better, or because I'm trying to hide something from you," he said, slowly, choosing his words as carefully as he could.

He had to be honest, and it was odd sometimes how easy it was to accidentally lie to her, to say something she could misunderstand. In fact, it was bizarre to think just how much of their past had been built on that very mistake. Not again. Never again. If he had anything to say about it.

"I need you, Hermione," he said, so much meaning in so much simplicity. Her eyes softened as he continued. "Yeah, this isn't perfect. But the war is over, and all I've wanted, from the moment we set out, was to be on the other side… with you."

Her lips parted again, and he knew she was starting to understand, to see how much this meant to him. That she wasn't just one of his best friends. That she wasn't just a girl. She was the _only_ girl he saw anymore. The only one he dreamt of, fantasized about… wanked over…

He blushed just thinking the words, but his tiny nervous grin turned the corners of her mouth up, too. And he was once again thankful for his own dirty thoughts. So many times those very thoughts had saved a row, when he'd suddenly replace her heaving, robe covered chest with an imagined vision of her naked breasts… He'd grin and she'd huff, and then all of a sudden, they'd be alright again.

Mental.

Clearing his throat once more, he pressed on…

"Don't think I'm not where I should be… that I need to be home with my family. You're my family, too, you know. And anyway, you didn't _ask_ me to come with you."

"But it was the same thing, really, the way I made you feel... _Obligated_ ," she said, still hesitating on the edge of believing him, on accepting that she had nothing to feel guilty about.

"I've never felt any obligation to be with you," he said, knowing what came next. Another admission. He was getting rather good at them, he reckoned. "Because… because it's _always_ where I want to be, anyway."

She sniffed, and he heard a distant cry, buried inside her throat, stamped down by her strength against it. He licked his lips and took half a step closer, hovering over her.

"Thank you," she sighed.

"For?"

"I dunno," she shrugged, smiling up at him. "For being you?"

"Reckon I can go on doing that," he teased, left corner of his mouth darting up. "Not too much work to be me, is it."

She laughed lightly, gazing back into his eyes. And he was sure, as the seconds ticked by, that it was the longest they'd ever held eye contact. It felt so excitingly new, to be able to stare at her the way he'd wished he could, the way he'd made sure to hide from her through the years. Now, none of that mattered. They were alone. And she seemed to want to be with him here as much as he wanted to be with her.

"I know we've only… been together," she started, blushing, "for a few days-"

"A week, just today," he interrupted, flexing his bare toes against the tile, shyly.

She smiled, clearly impressed by his calculations.

"A week," she echoed, looking extremely pleased and content all of a sudden. But her happiness melted to apprehension as she bit her lip before she rushed the rest of her words out. "But… would you mind if I slept in here with you?"

His eyes must have widened too much too quickly, because the moment the words had processed, danced on the air between them, she sucked in a sharp breath and closed her eyes, a gesture only familiar to him as one used, in his own personal circumstances, before an obligatory swear. But she skipped that part in favor of back pedaling, another of her defenses, one he was bloody ready to knock the hell down…

He actually opened his mouth to speak over her, to beat her to what he assumed would be an attempt to shy away from what she _really_ wanted. Miraculously. But she somehow made it from jumbled thoughts to audible words first, and his lips froze, parted in pre-speech.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she blurted. "I shouldn't have asked that. I'm sorry, Ron. That was out of or-"

Enough was enough… wasn't it.

"Of course I wouldn't mind," he said, firmly. "In fact, please… yeah, please do stay."

He swallowed past the rapidly forming lump in his throat. He was far too nervous, but also far too tired at the moment to focus much energy on it. And maybe that was why he felt this new ease with her, like he could say any sodding thing that came to his mind and she'd still be there.

Or maybe… it was simply knowing that she never should have forgiven him for what he did, for _leaving_ her… but that she _did,_ anyway. And _that_ was far more than he deserved. If she could forgive him for _that…_ perhaps she'd never… _never_ leave him…

It was almost too much to hope, or blimey, to _comprehend_ …

"Really?" she asked, face full of awe and teetering on the edge of disbelief.

"Yeah," he said, breathing out deeply. "Yeah, absolutely."

She broke away then, biting her lip as she smiled to herself, hair falling to cover half of her face.

"Okay, I'll just get… changed," she nearly whispered, turning without another look back, and vanishing around the corner, through the door into her own room.

He stood frozen after her, considering the hotel's giant, warm bed… with Hermione tucked inside next to him. Some kind of shift had taken place, something previously angled just away from him, now pointed directly at him.

_You_ , it said. _You're the one who'll get everything._

He ripped his shirt up over his head, hair clinging to cotton as he shook himself free. And he fetched a clean one from the bottom of his new rucksack, the one he'd taken from packed boxes still cluttering up Fred and George's old closet at The Burrow. He located a shirt and pajamas, shuffling his hips out of his tight black jeans, dragging them down his bony legs, kicking them off his ankles to lie in a heap on the cold loo tile as he exchanged them for soft cotton, pulling pajama elastic up, up... over his hips. Ruffling a hand through his hair, he heard her returning, providing him nowhere near enough time to even bother rushing himself into a new shirt to avoid being seen half naked.

She gasped as she rounded the loo doorway again, face suddenly level with his bare chest.

"S-Sorry," she stuttered, eyes wide and round, and definitely not moving away from him. So, how sorry was she, _really_?

"Ah, s'ok," he rasped, taken in by the look on her face, by the way her thin white t-shirt hugged her breasts much too tightly as she breathed in mesmerizing bursts.

He broke the spell, gathering his clean shirt in his hands and slipping his arms through, ducking into the neck hole and re-emerging to find her mouth hanging open a tad further than before. But the moment she saw him resurface, his eyes on her again, she tilted her chin up and straightened her spine, whirling away from him and back out of sight again.

Composure, he thought, as he grinned. Well, at least he'd seen her lose it, before she'd gathered it back.

He shuffled out of the loo, frozen once again by the sight of her sitting on the edge of his bed, covers already turned down.

"You're sure-" she began, but he must have nodded emphatically enough to convince her beyond the need to even complete her question.

She looked… happy. _Actually_ happy. Because of _him_.

He melted towards the bed as she crawled in first, and he found himself suddenly lying on his right side, tucking his lanky body into warmth as she cuddled up closer, facing him but not touching. Not yet.

Out of nowhere, she retrieved her wand - he guessed from her pajama elastic - and she swished it over her head, dropping the room to near complete darkness. Moonlight drifted in from the open curtains behind Ron, making it quite easy to see most of her face. He smiled softly at her as she moved another inch closer, her feet knocking into his shins.

He swallowed thickly and hoped she wouldn't move away. She didn't. And he took it as his queue to sod everything and gather her closer.

Dropping a trembling arm over her waist, he tugged, drawing her body into his until their chests were almost touching, his hand trailing up her back to lie flat, palm down, between her shoulder blades.

"H-How long am I supposed to wait to start… telling you everything?" she whispered, her hair now tickling his forehead as she inched her way across their shared pillow.

"Why wait at all?" he whispered back, heart suddenly pounding so powerfully that he was beginning to wonder if he needed to make it stop, to force it to calm down. If it kept going at this rate, he was going to make himself sick…

"Oh," she squeaked out, panting against his lips.

He looked away from her, now actually positive that he had to slow his heart rate. It was accelerating far beyond what was healthy...

"Damn it, Ron," she suddenly huffed, "can I kiss you now or _not_?"

Alarmed, he gripped the back of her t-shirt tightly in his fist as his eyes found hers again. Well, so much for his heart. He'd die happy, at least...

"Bloody hell, yes. Yes, always," he said, laughter bubbling up from his chest. "What made you think you weren't… allowed?"

"I don't know," she breathed. "You haven't… tried anything."

Laughter reached a breaking point, and he was suddenly consumed by it, shaking the bed as he grinned.

"You're right," he managed to say. "I haven't… until now."

He angled his nose, closed his eyes, and moved his hand up into her hair to grip the back of her head, pulling her lips against his rather roughly. But if he had any time to question his startling movements, it was quickly stamped down by the throaty moan that vibrated from her throat to his own.

He'd never, in all of his life, been able to imagine a sound that came anywhere close to what he'd just heard. To what he'd just _made_ her produce.

She slid her leg firmly between his, and his fingers wrapped around curl after curl at the base of her skull as his lips parted, stacked between hers. She sucked gently, then more insistently, on his bottom lip, until he moved his tongue, sliding it along the crease between her lips, slipping towards her own tongue as she gasped air from his mouth into her own. With nothing left to breathe, he tried to suck oxygen through his crushed nose, happily succeeding enough not to have to part from the most perfect thing he'd ever felt. Her breasts pressed securely to his chest, soft planes of flesh squished against solid bone and muscle. He wasn't sure now if his hand would ever be able to untangle itself from her hair, buried fingers completely entwined with madness. Not that he cared. Not that she seemed to care either, as every involuntary yank of his twisting and twirling fingers brought her tongue surging against his, her teeth grating down onto his lips.

He heard the noises he was making, but was now having trouble distinguishing them from the ones _she_ was making. Little bursts of pleasure through squeaks and deep groans.

It was useless to say he'd never been kissed like this, and that he'd never kissed like this in return. Useless. Because it wasn't up for comparison. It was simply… _the first time_. The first, and the last. Because every new moment was the last time he'd ever have it… for the first time. Because she was the first and last perfect thing he'd add to his own life.

The _only_ thing.

She was running her own trembling hands up and down his back, left hand sliding to his bicep to hold on tightly, fingers wrapped around active muscle. His right arm, now cramped beneath his own body, snaked up under their pillow, supporting her head and drawing her up. She seemed to take some kind of cue from it and was suddenly hovering over him, kissing him into his own pillow as he opened his eyes for a fraction of a second, requiring a view of her beautiful face and body, now brilliantly occupying so much of his personal space.

When he closed his eyes again, it was with a renewed groan, rumbling through his chest as she settled her own chest half overlapping his.

And then, she pulled back an inch and reclaimed her lips gradually, almost painfully… separating them from his. He blinked heavily up at her still-closed lids. And then, as he watched, she opened her eyes, desire welling up in them as moonlight glowed in her pupils.

"Okay. So, if… if that wasn't me trying something," he said, gravely, "then I don't know what the hell is."

She laughed all the way to her eyes, dropping her head to fit precisely against his neck and shoulder, her palm brushing up his warm chest as she settled half beside him, half on top of him. Her thigh overlapped his. Her foot was doing something comical against his shin, almost dancing through nerves and contentment.

And it was bloody perfect. And he would be hard pressed to move if the whole bleeding place was on fire.

He laughed into her hair and found that his hand wasn't quite as tangled as he'd feared. He slipped his fingers from her scalp to her neck, gently moving them over skin, through curls.  
She sighed noisily into him, and he felt his lungs deflate more than usual, such wonderful refreshment in deeply inhaling again immediately afterwards. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd simply _breathed_ freely. Her scent filled both nostrils and lungs… and his eyes slipped shut as he held her.

Time had somehow stopped, and they simply floated here, between thoughts of darkness and reality, plans and futures. Night enveloped them as heavily as any blanket or tear-stained t-shirt.

He needed only one thing. Which was right _there_ with him now. Which meant there was nothing out of his reach. Nothing left to desire without resolution.

Slowly, exhaustion overwhelmed the nervous excitement of something so new. And, as he fell off towards sleep, he'd never felt so at peace in all of his life.


End file.
